


The Empty House

by LaBelleetlaloup



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3864982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaBelleetlaloup/pseuds/LaBelleetlaloup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John moves on after Sherlock walks off a building by cycling backwards-back into the military, but he and Mary make room for The Work when Sherlock returns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Empty House

John had signed up for another tour in Afghanistan only a few months after Sherlock fell from St. Bart’s. He could not handle the constant reminder that simply being in London was. He had tried to wander through other parts of London, but given that their cases often stretched across the entire city, there was no part of the city that did not somehow lead back to Sherlock. However, Afghanistan was before Sherlock. If he went back, he hoped he would be able to distract himself and forget.

When he went to ask to return, he was assigned to his old unit, in the same position he had held before he left. His unit was on leave, and they would be returning in two weeks. John took the time to get his affairs in order: cleaning out his things at 221B, finding a cheap but reliable and insured long-term storage facility, searching out his old army clothes and starting back on a strict exercise routine. He had not let himself go, but he had forgone his own training regimen to follow Sherlock’s, which consisted solely of case-related activities.

John also got back in touch with his unit. It remained largely unchanged, which did not surprise him. Miller had been promoted to his position, but had elected to assume his former position rather than be reassigned. Most of the boys were still there. A couple had not made it through the intervening years, due to medical invaliding and retirement. Thankfully, no one had died. A couple newer recruits had taken their places. John was not concerned about their ability to follow his leadership, as they had all met up at a pub one night, and they seemed appropriately deferential. That’s not to say that they did not curse and yell and drink and get thrown out with the rest of the unit, but they did know when to shut up and get down, dammit. 

It was a week before they were due to return to duty that John ran into Mary in a coffee shop. He and Allan were catching up, having a cup of coffee and reminiscing on the difficulties of dating properly, when she tripped over another woman’s bag and her papers went sprawling. John was instantly on his knees, helping her scoop her papers back into a pile. Mary smiled at him, he smiled back. Allan invited her to join them with a pointed look at John, before announcing he was late for some appointment. John did not laugh at the blatant machinations, merely playing along, and assuring Mary that it had been no trouble to help her gather her things.

They spent hours over coffee. John got her number and a proper date a couple of days later, though he doubted it would come to anything. He was still clinically depressed. She was a lovely woman, but Sherlock had been his closest friend and it was too soon. The date went well anyway. They bonded over dinner, having found a few things in common, and though she did not invite him up for coffee, John did kiss her goodnight. It was a chaste peck, but she knew he was leaving for war soon, and she understood his desire not to get too attached without him having to bring up a dead friend. They went on another date before he shipped out. It passed in much the same way, as they wandered through the London Zoo.

Then John shipped out with his unit. It was back to Afghanistan, the desert, the sun, the sand, the heat, the combat. Within days he was acclimated to the life there: patrol, sleep, eat, shoot the fucking spider, shoot the Taliban, and yell at Miller and O'Conner to keep it the fuck down. It was an easy existence on his mind, if difficult on his body as it built up the tan and muscles and tough skin needed to survive. John got through the first tour without issue: eighteen months. 

Then he spent a week with Mary on leave. He came up for coffee after their dates, but he went home and slept in his own bed. They were getting attached anyway, seeing each other every day, but John did not want to sleep with her and then die in the desert on her.

He went back to Afghanistan for another tour: only twelve months this time. Then he came back for leave and promotion and Mary. He was rather too old for war now, and he was being promoted to a desk job in London, while Miller was taking back his position as the leader. John proposed to Mary, having kept in touch while at war this time. She accepted. They were married quickly and quietly in Mary’s church and moved into a pretty little house with flowers in the garden and rocking chairs on the front porch. John missed Sherlock still, but in the manner of a dull ache instead of a searing pain, and living outside of London helped keep the memories from overwhelming him in the middle of the Tesco, picking up some milk and eggs on his way home.

So Mary was pregnant when Sherlock showed back up. It had been just over three years since he jumped off the roof, making John watch. John came home from work to find Mary sitting on the porch with a tall man he barely recognized. John strode calmly up the walk, smiling easily at Mary, before turning to her guest to introduce himself and choking on air, with his hand outstretched.

“Mmphf!” John managed to get out, gaping at Sherlock. Mary slowly stood, putting her hands out to steady him.

“John, are you alright?” she asked.

“He’s having a bit of shock,” Sherlock replied. John sank to his knees at the sound of the old familiar voice. Sherlock followed him, thin and aged, but still Sherlock. “You’ll be alright, John, yeah?” John nodded. Sherlock launched into a short explanation to Mary as to John’s behavior, “I had to fake my death, so John thought I was dead these past three years. It’s a bit of shock, I’m sure.”

“Bit not good,” John managed to get out. Sherlock turned to him, taking his outstretched hands and helping him up. “Making me watch and letting me think you were dead,” he continued. Sherlock had the decency to look chastised, still holding John up by the hands.

“Your neighbors are getting nosy,” he announced, “Let’s take this inside.”

“Yes,” John nodded, following Sherlock easily into the house. He was still in shock, was his only explanation for how easily he accepted Sherlock’s reappearance. Once they were in the house, he got an entirely different kind of shock. Sherlock was standing in Mary’s sitting room. It all sank in. Sherlock had been alive the whole time. John’s fist formed of its own accord and flew into Sherlock’s cheek, barely missing his nose.

“John!” Mary cried out. Sherlock just sighed through his nose and nodded.

“I made him watch me walk off a building, Mary. He’s entitled.”

“Of course I am, you bastard,” John fumed, “You lied to me.”

“Which time bothers you?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to pretend innocence.

“You said you were a fraud and walked off a building, when we both knew it wasn’t true, you arse,” John snarled. Mary suddenly realized exactly who Sherlock was. She gasped. John sighed, rubbing his forehead, “You better have put Moriarty in his grave, putting me through this.”

“Moriarty shot himself,” Sherlock replied, “So, yes, he’s dead, but he put himself there. I caught the rest of his web though. Some died in the ensuing struggle, some ended up imprisoned.”

“How’s Mycroft’s diet?” John asked with a chuckle. It still seemed surreal. Sherlock laughed. The lights seemed to flicker and suddenly Sherlock was darting forward and Mary was screaming his name. John felt his eyes slip closed. He woke up on the couch, having fainted. Mary was making a cup of tea in the kitchen, and Sherlock was hovering protectively.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked, calmly.

“Afghanistan,” John replied.

“Good, now you knocked your head a little, don’t tell Mary, so full name.”

“John Hamish Watson,” he replied, still trying to orient himself.

“Good,” Sherlock was smiling, “Current Prime Minister?”

“Deleted,” John replied with a wry smile, “I’ve been at war. I don’t know either.” Sherlock grinned. John grinned back.

“Chinese?” Sherlock offered.

“Starving,” John grinned back. Mary turned with the cup of tea to find the pair grinning unabashedly at each other and realized how little she really knew about John before she met him. Though it took a while for Mary to accept John’s inability to turn Sherlock down when Sherlock needed him, and insistence on retiring from the military properly to go back to locum doctoring, she eventually did. The part time position fit better with being on the run after Sherlock. When Mary took up a teaching position after their son was old enough, she appreciated his being able to take time when he wanted as well. Eventually, things settled into an even keel. John and Mary kept their house in the suburbs. During cases, John spent long nights with Sherlock at 221B. In the lulls, John devoted himself to his wife and son. Sherlock and Mary learned how to share, and Mary overlooked that sometimes Scotland Yard babysat her son because John was watching him and Sherlock called.


End file.
